


Fugue in F-Sharp Minor

by MyMisguidedFairytale



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Musicians, Angst, Classical Music, Contest Entry, Deal with a Devil, Dubious Consent, Faustian Bargain, Good Writing, Horror, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Musicians, One Shot, Violins, crosshipping - Freeform, probably one of the best things I'll ever write, this is good y'all I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 16:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17831840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyMisguidedFairytale/pseuds/MyMisguidedFairytale
Summary: In the obliqueness of the notes he finds something little more than flawless. / AU, Crosshipping, Yugi x Dark Marik"Take it back!" Yugi shouts, holding out the open violin case. "I don't want it anymore!""Now how can that be?" Marik asks. "I've heard you play it…it's true perfection. You are the most talented violinist I have ever heard, and you want to give up the instrument that can show youtruegenius?""Yes! I see it now…I willnever be this good again!It is better never to know that and believe that I can still reach that level than to see it vanish from beneath me! Take itback!"





	Fugue in F-Sharp Minor

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written 08-10-11 for the YGO Fanfiction Contest on ff.net, for the fourth round of season 8.5, with the challenge pairing of Crosshipping (Yugi x Dark Marik). The story and its notes are reproduced below as they first appeared.
> 
> A/N: Written for the YGO Contest Season 8.5, Tier Four. The pairing is Crosshipping (Yugi x Dark Marik). I got the idea suddenly in my head to make Yugi not a genius of games, but of music. So now he's a star violin player in this AU. Warnings for some dark themes. I hope you enjoy!

_****_

_**Fugue in F-sharp Minor**  
_

_"F-sharp_ _minor, although it leads to great distress, nevertheless is more languid and love-sick than lethal. Moreover, it has something abandoned, singular, and misanthropic about it." – Johann Mattheson_

_We cannot well accompany the Devil in any key but F-sharp_ _minor_ _– Anon. 1828_

In the University they had names for him, names they called him behind closed doors and windows and the flap of papers, seating-charts and programs and awards printed in black ink with a gold seal and the department head's signature. They begrudged him the last and loathed him for the first, for they only knew enough about him to judge, not enough to understand or know. They only knew the music, and the man as a musician.

He stayed after hours playing Stravinski or Paganini or perhaps Glass, if he's feeling up to something a little more modern, a little less dead. He stayed until they turned the lights off in the building but still he played, not needing the light to know the notes on the page, letting the music drift out the windows half-tilted and lucid. He played for those wandering the campus sidewalks half-drunk in packs or alone and walking quickly, unsettling their ears and their bodies; his was music that reached to the very soul of a person, tapped their spines with quick fingers and made introductions between a person's waking mind and the absolute vacuity of the subconscious, the blankness that consumed them, overwhelmed them, upon hearing such music. And the others despised him for it.

He played each solo like it was his first and his last, drawing out the tuning-notes and bowing to the audience like it was an ordeal he'd rather not partake in if given the choice. It was clear to his classmates that he preferred the racing notes, the quick tempos, the upwards scales reaching notes so beautiful that once they were gone it seemed nothing could replace them but the next set of rhythms. He had an effortless talent, and the others spurned him for it.

"He plays like the Devil!" they said. They didn't mean it as a compliment.

And when Yugi Mutou left the University and continued to play for orchestras and solo gigs across the country, the nicknames did not leave him. They followed him doggedly, waiting for the day when he would encounter a piece of music that he couldn't beat.

* * *

"And, from the top! Five, Six, Seven—" The swish of the baton. Yugi's fingers poised over the strings, clutching the bow tighter than necessary. The second movement always gave him trouble.

The music moved fast, barely enough time to think. Start with an A, descending rhythms, then the second violins came in, completing the chord. Spin away, half note, then a series of arpeggios. A, C-sharp, F-sharp, and back down. Trills. He hated trills. Botched the cutoff.

His main solo isn't until the third movement; the first intermeshes all of the instruments, making no single one the star, while the second soars from one instrument to the next, highlighting each section in turn. It's as smooth and fluid as water, written with a bravado and skill so fierce that he has to wonder how in the world the Domino orchestra got a hold of the commission in the first place. It's the sort of thing that should have a much bigger premiere, but a month from tomorrow is still the first time the suite will be performed to a live audience. With nothing else occupying the space these weekday afternoons, the orchestra of forty rehearses directly on the auditorium stage, letting the acoustics do half their jobs for them. The rest, as his conductor would say, is up to Yugi.

The sideways glance lets him know that the botched cutoff was noticed. Screw it; he'll get it right next time. Deep breath in the next _five six seven_ , and the process repeats—

So he'll get it right the _next_ time. Beside him the second chair straightens a little higher in her seat. So she noticed, too. Good for them, have a medal.

The music is tricky to play but it has never been _this_ tricky, and when they begin the third movement he notices just how much he's started to sweat. It makes concentrating even more difficult, and good lord, he enters on the totally wrong note. Should've been a B flat, he marked this _weeks_ ago—and Yugi grabs a pencil from his music stand, circling the note and feeling like an idiot when he knows perfectly well what note he should play. His mind knows it, his fingers know it, and it's sitting there on the ledger line in crisp black and white; it physically cannot get any clearer than that, but while his fingers skim over the strings in record time, the bow is sluggish to follow them. The strings don't resonate in the way the music is meant to be played, to be heard. Something is wrong in the way he is playing it or the way the notes themselves are being played.

He coughs, trying to discreetly wave the error away, and they try again. Right this time, but still the music drifts in a way totally foreign to him. There is a minor flute solo, played proficiently. Fluttering trills from the woodwinds, sweeping lines from the violins. Sheer musical beauty, and his violin is meant to be its capstone. Instead it sinks, weighed down by the weight of what? The piece of wood creating the notes themselves? The fingers coaxing the melody from limp strings? He is in perfect tune, it cannot be that, and Yugi is concentrating so hard that he misses his cue and comes in an entire measure late.

Forgivable mistakes, but it is likely to become harder and harder to pardon the more the orchestra practices together and the closer the concert gets. Yugi's shoulders slouch and he circles more notes in heavy pencil.

"Take five, everyone. Mutou, a word?" At the conductor's words everyone else flips their music closed and takes out their water bottles, chatting amiably as Yugi follows him into the wings.

"There's no easy way to say this," he says, "but Mutou, what the hell was that? You're playing terribly. Is something wrong? Something I should be aware of—"

"Ah, no, I'm fine," Yugi replies. "It's this piece, it has me rattled."

A pause. One of the percussionists is practicing something on the wood blocks, and Yugi really wishes they would stop; it's not helping his nerves.

"…Rattled?"

"It's…fantastic music," he continues. "The most challenging solo I've ever seen. And I've played the Schoenberg. I suppose I'm just feeling intimidated by the…prestige of the piece. More than anything I want to do this music justice. I want to play it the way it was meant to be played."

"For the longest time I didn't think it was possible to be played," the conductor says. "When I received the commissioned work on my desk I laughed—it was impossible. But in listening to your early rehearsals you proved me wrong. You're handling it well, but with the rest of the orchestra it falls apart! Why?"

"I don't know." He thinks about explaining to the conductor the fact that his fingers and his mind are moving too quickly for even his violin to follow, or that he hesitates because he can't quite tell what about the music and his playing is wrong, only that something needs to be changed, and by the time the thought passes through his mind it's already too late and he's behind the beat, struggling to catch up. He knows the music by heart, he has committed every note to memory, but something about the composition as a whole is still incomplete.

"I'm missing something," he says, then laughs weakly. "It's just stress, I'm sure. It won't happen again."

"Be sure that it doesn't," the conductor says. "We can't replace you. No one else could play this piece…well, there's the composer I'm sure, but he is unavailable. I've been told there's a chance he won't even be at the premiere of his own piece!"

Downtrodden, Yugi returns to his seat and practices the fingerings on the opening section, repeating the notes in his head until he can think of nothing else. When the baton falls, he is ready and the music comes.

It is still not his best, nowhere _near_ his best, and that strikes him more deeply than any shame at missed notes or cues could cause.

* * *

Rehearsal the following Sunday goes much the same way, as does rehearsal the day after. Notes missed, concentration slipped, and Yugi paces the small, dimly lit room that serves as storage for the orchestra while they rehearse. He is not needed for the first movement, only coming onstage for solos in the second and third, and above him they practice; he can hear it through the ceiling, thinly soundproofed so the techs or performers running around can hear their cues. A few bags and instrument cases litter the floor, his own among them. Open, he lets his gaze linger on the wooden curve of his violin, admiring it and hating its recent flightiness. He snaps the case shut on a whim. Why couldn't it be good enough for this performance?

"Why indeed?" A voice asks from the far side of the room.

Yugi turns sharply, struggling at first to make out the speaker. "I wasn't aware I had said that out loud," he mutters.

Soon the stranger comes into full view and Yugi still feels like he is looking at a mirage of a person—not fully-formed or still smoky around the edges, not the way he would typically see a person—and he blames this on the low lighting, the bulb directly overhead flickering weakly in its socket.

"Who are you?" he asks. He knows the area has restricted access, so this must be an employee of the auditorium—albeit a rather strangely dressed one, his black clothes oddly formal, contrasting sharply with his mess of bone-colored hair.

"I'm a friend," he says. "Simply a friend, although since you are seeking a name you can call me Marik."

"Alright…Marik," Yugi says, feeling a rather bitter aftertaste after speaking the name, "this area is for the musicians only, so I'm going to ask you to leave so I can…fix something."

Marik laughs, leaning back as he does it, one hand pressed lightly to his mouth. It gives the appearance of a kind of sculpted preparation, something simulated and acted to perfection. It does not impress Yugi in the slightest.

"It _is_ in need of fixing, isn't it?" he asks, and when Yugi says nothing he continues. "Your violin, of course. So ill-suited to the kind of music it is forced to play."

"I don't think I asked for your opinion, so if you would please _leave_." It is kinder than telling him to _shove off_ , and he's in the kind of mood to say it, but he doesn't necessarily want that kind of reputation for his still-fledgling career—he can picture it now, _Star Violinist Berates Staff, "Only Trying to Help_." It wouldn't make headlines, but perhaps it would make a spot on pages five or six.

"But you did. You asked why it couldn't be good enough." Above them, the music continues to play, building to the crescendo. They'll probably run parts of it again before starting the next movement, but he still doesn't have more than fifteen minutes before he'll need to be on-stage. "You said earlier that you wished to play this music the way it was meant to be played."

"And how is that, exactly?"

"I'd like to make you an offer," Marik says lightly, and for the first time Yugi can see the case clutched in his right hand, held partially behind his back. "It's a simple offer, one you'll agree can be in both our best interests."

"Whatever it is, I'm not interested," Yugi begins, but Marik moves a couple steps closer and holds out the case.

"This is a violin that has been in my possession for…quite some time," he says. "It can be yours from now until the premiere on the condition that you give it back once the piece is over."

He looks at the case. It's oddly shaped, a bit larger than the traditional violin case, and obviously old, from the way the leather cracks on the edges, worn dark around the handle. "What makes it so special?"

"Open it, play it for yourself and see the difference," Marik replies. "Your violin may try, but it cannot play this music. It cannot compare."

From above the music stops, the cutoff jarring to the point that Yugi's vision almost seems slanted, focused exclusively on the case and the tanned arm holding it out to him. With a quick jerk of his head he looks away, his fingers twisting the lock on his own case to keep it closed before grabbing the handle.

"Look, I've…I've got to go," he says feebly, making for the door as quickly as his rather short legs can carry him. Marik's laughter stops him with one hand on the doorknob.

"Go, then," he says. "You have only to ask and the violin shall be yours."

He leaves, and the gaping mouth of the stage seems much larger than before, the walk to his chair at the front right much longer. He nestles his violin beneath his chin, grasps the bow, and plays—yet the music that emanates isn't true music, not a true reflection of the notes on the page or his skill. He will practice until he gets it right.

It is satisfactory, but it is not genius. It is not good enough—the piece _requires_ genius, and Yugi will accept nothing less.

* * *

In the obliqueness of the notes he finds something little more than flawless.

It has always been Yugi's habit to rent out practice rooms to do just that, practice. In the dormitories—and in his childhood house, but that is so many years earlier that the music he was making in comparison to now hardly even counts—he felt awkward playing the violin when anyone could hear it and when the much more common sounds were televised sports games or pop music. It made concentration nearly impossible, so he retreated to the solitary rooms that offered bland comfort and a blander ear to the music he could make inside its walls.

He breaks off mid-measure, sighing as he leans forward to press his forehead against the sheet music. "What am I doing?" he whispers.

"Playing the violin." The voice comes from the doorway but the speaker is Marik, he recognizes it. Yugi doesn't make the effort to turn his head, but he can tell by the sounds of the squeak of shoes on the floor that he is walking closer. "And rather proficiently, at that. Although you did lag in the 5/8 measure."

"Could you do it better?" The man owns a violin and can recognize tempos; Yugi realizes belatedly that he, too, must be a musician.

"It's been so long since I've played," is the response. "No, I believe you're the best violinist I've heard in a long time."

Yugi wants to tell him that that wasn't what he had asked. He also remembers quite clearly closing the door to the rehearsal room, which means that Marik is bothering him on purpose.

"What do you want?" he asks, too tired to complain or care about whatever intent lies behind the visit.

"To offer you the violin again. Do you want it?"

Too tired to complain. No, he doesn't want the violin. Yes, he wants the violin. He sighs, seeing it as a concession instead of a defeat.

"Let me see it."

Marik hands over the case without delay, and Yugi opens the two latches on either end, lifting it to reveal a very ordinary-looking violin, crafted of a strangely dark wood. It's been well cared for, but as he absently plucks one of the strings he murmurs, "It's out of tune."

"I would expect it would be," he replies.

Yugi goes through the process of tuning the violin by ear, carefully adjusting the strings until it sings out perfectly, running through a few preliminary scales and random snatches of rhythms until he feels comfortable enough to start his first solo, the one from the second movement.

The notes jump almost out of his hands before he can capture them with the string but the violin keeps up, and the music sounds just as he imagined it. Beside him, Marik grins widely in a way that isn't altogether flattering but his eyes are focused on the music. He gets to the end of the page and Marik turns it for him. He mumbles a brief thank you.

"Why thank me?" he asks. "I was only doing my job."

Yugi stops, then, holding the violin out and studying it closer. "It's a beautiful instrument. But I can't just _take_ it from you if it's yours—"

" _Yugi_ ," Marik says, and he wonders when he ever told the man his name, "I offer you the same deal as before. You can have it under the promise that you return it after the premiere concert."

"It's absolutely beautiful," he says. "It's perfect—absolutely perfect for the music. I would be honored to play it, if you don't mind."

"So we have a deal?" he asks.

"Yes," Yugi says. He takes the case from Marik and tucks the violin back inside before packing up his own and the rest of his music. "That's enough for tonight."

"I'll walk with you," Marik says. "I was just leaving when I heard the music."

Yugi nods and stands, walking with him out the room, up the hallway, and down the two flights of stairs to the main entrance to the street. They pass no one on their way, and Yugi spares a quick glance at his watch, finding it much later than he intended to be out.

"Do you know the feeling? I got so lost in my music that I didn't even notice the time," he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and trying to be cheerful.

"I often lose myself in my work," he comments, and Yugi nods along as they walk in companionable silence. They cross a street, and he wonders when they're going to part ways.

"You've got no coat on, you'll freeze," Yugi suddenly remarks, feeling idiotic for not having noticed it a half-block ago. Marik wears his skin like a coat, shrugging, not seeming to care that he should react a little stronger to the fact that it's freezing outside and Yugi can see his own breath like a cloud when he exhales.

"I'll be fine, I don't have much longer to go."

He nods, still feeling odd about being bundled up himself when the person walking beside him could be cold. Still, he accepts Marik's word, catching sight of his own apartment block up the street. He didn't spend much time in the city anymore, preferring to travel and play with the big orchestras in the major cities, but he still kept his place in Domino to have something to return to when it was all over.

"This is me," he says, fidgeting somewhat awkwardly at the way Marik halts, assessing the old but still stately building, and with Yugi standing on the step he has to glance down to see him.

"Ah. Then I suppose I will see you later," he replies. "Take good care of the violin."

"O-Of course." Yugi wonders why he even has to say it, like there is any chance at all he wouldn't care for it like it was his own beloved instrument. "Goodnight, Marik."

His response is amused. "Goodnight, Yugi. Sleep well."

Standing in his kitchen drinking a glass of water, he is suddenly overcome with the desire to play the violin again. He knows he shouldn't at this hour; it will only wake the neighbors and he so rarely plays at home and he would have to find his music stand. No, he will have to wait until tomorrow to play it. His fingers itch at the possibility.

* * *

It is a transformation; he feels like a part of himself has been transformed. The violin is snugged tight under his chin and from the first note the conductor almost falls off of his podium. The violinist beside him stares in a kind of muted awe, and with satisfaction Yugi notes that in the first run-through he has made no mistakes. In fact, he seems to glide above the music itself, coaxing out the truest perfection in the piece. His playing is genius, and everyone who hears it recognizes it.

So why does he feel so disappointed when the conductor only rehearses the second movement instead of practicing the third? He wants to play both, he wants to know what his solo sounds like to the empty amphitheatre and the new, brilliant violin.

He practices alone in one of the rehearsal rooms, later, playing everything that jumps into his mind—Mozart, nursery rhymes, practice rhythms, random constructions he invents on the spot. He plays them to calm him, but the music seems to make him more agitated, more on edge. It all sounds equally beautiful.

He almost wishes Marik was here to hear it—that anyone else was here to hear it besides himself, but when he turns to the doorway there is no one. He even left it open, just in case.

He remembers playing music to empty corridors and wide sidewalks, and plays now for the stairwells and the lobbies, the doorways and the high ceilings. He lets the music float and stir the air, lingering like a timed promise. These rooms have very honest acoustics—the sound doesn't travel for miles, reverberating off every surface to let the notes linger long after they should have died. He hates that he can't blame the room for the beauty of the sound; he knows it to be real. It's impossibly real. He needs someone else to validate this.

The thought consumes him on the walk back to his apartment. He accidentally drops his keys trying to get them into the keyhole and curses, ducking down to pick them up while balancing both violin cases in his other hand. He feels like someone is watching him, and almost wishes it were true so he wouldn't feel quite so alone.

* * *

He plays again, sweeping the notes out with practiced fingers, cutting the opening bars of the solo short in hopeful anticipation. Around him the other musicians warm up, waiting for rehearsal to begin—and like before, the second movement is the only one rehearsed.

The movement sounds more beautiful with his violin added to it, like a resolved chord. He finds himself erasing a few circled marks from before, uncluttering his music. He doesn't need them anymore, the tempo marks or circled reminders; he plays perfectly now, pouring everything he has to give to the music and rewarded with it in return. Someone from one of the newspapers is there to listen and write about the premiere, and he feels an almost smug satisfaction at the response of the suited journalist. It's both shock and awe, painted so clearly on his face the image might as well be permanent. It inspires him to play harder.

"Take five," the conductor calls, and while most of the others welcome the break Yugi stands and signals him.

"Can I have a word?"

They stand together on the edge of the stage, almost in the wings, and Yugi is quick to the point.

"Why haven't you rehearsed the third movement yet?"

"The orchestra needs more practice on the first and second numbers," he answers. "Next week we'll get to the—"

" _Why?_ " He doesn't mean to sound angry; he _isn't_ angry, it's a foreign emotion to him, and he recognizes it as irrational. "Is it because you don't think I can play it? Is it because you don't want to hear it? I _want_ to _play_ my solo—"

" _Mutou_." With a single word Yugi blinks and acquires clarity with a sheepish embarrassment.

"I didn't…I-I mean, I don't know what came over me," he says. "Can I be excused? I'm not…feeling well."

"Go home, Mutou," the conductor tells him. "Go home and rest. You look like you need it."

Grateful, he seizes the opportunity to gather his things and leaves. He had only brought the one violin case that day—the new one. In his apartment he sits on an overstuffed chair, a relic from his grandfather's house, moved into his own four years ago after the man's death. His old violin in hand, he plays his solo, slowed down in tempo, the notes sounding so stilted and partial to his ears. It cannot compare.

Suddenly he wants _this_ violin to be able to play the music in the same way as the new one. He doesn't want to leave it behind when it's done nothing wrong. The music has always comforted him before, but music played on Marik's violin doesn't give anything back, it only takes more and more, urging him on to greater genius.

It is not enough anymore.

* * *

The storage room has never felt so constricting to Yugi. Where before the low ceiling and dim light made the room feel longer than it actually was, now he only felt boxed in by the music from above and the stacks of sheet music in boxes and trays heaped up against the far walls. He stares at the violin case in his hands, running his fingers over the battered leather, and flips the latches open.

The wood of the violin shines, and in the faint light it's turned almost sinister. On impulse, Yugi flings a stack of music into the air, sliding a Bach or Mahler down onto the floor. The paper is large and almost weightless, and in the twisting, wavering leaves he sees a figure standing, moving closer. He sees Marik.

"Take it back!" Yugi shouts, holding out the open violin case. "I don't want it anymore!"

"Now how can that be?" Marik asks. "I've heard you play it…it's true perfection. You are the most talented violinist I have ever heard, and you want to give up the instrument that can show you _true_ genius?"

"Yes! I see it now…I will _never be this good again!_ It is better never to know that and believe that I can still reach that level than to see it vanish from beneath me! Take it _back!_ "

"No, I can't," he says, his voice so unnaturally calm that Yugi flings another stack of music into the air, destroying the careful order of the stacks just to watch the pages of sheet music floating around him to fall gracefully to the floor in random order, looking like snow on the dark wood floor. "We had a deal, you and I, and I _will not_ take back the violin until your premiere. I want to hear you play it that evening—playing the music the way it was meant to be played. And you _will_ play it for me—"

From above, the first movement continues to rage, and Yugi tosses more music, trying to hit Marik. None of the pages do.

"I will never play as well as I do now," Yugi says. "I might as well not play at all…but I _can't_ …"

"Of course you can. That is what musicians do, is it not? They play music. And that is what virtuosos do—they play music _well_. And you will be the greatest of them all."

"What do you care?" he asks, staring at Marik, backlit by a flickering lightbulb.

"I care…for the sake of the music as well as the musician," he says almost breathlessly. "That, and you have something of mine, and I must wait for you to return it to me. At the _proper time_ ," he adds, after seeing the expression on Yugi's face.

The air is thick and heavy and Yugi notices for the first time how strangled his breathing has become. "It is…only a depressing realization," he says. "To know that one has reached his pinnacle and will never know it again."

"Perhaps," Marik says absently. "If I were you, I would enjoy it while you can."

The expression Yugi gives him then is strange, almost accusing in its unfamiliarity. Marik doubts that Yugi has ever worn such an expression before.

He looks around him, at the music on the floor and the violin case still clutched in his fingers. Marik's hair looks wilder than normal, but the room _is_ uncommonly hot and Yugi creates another excuse to leave.

That day, they rehearse the third movement.

After rehearsal, when Yugi follows members of the orchestra to the storage room, he gasps and tries to cut in front of them, already apologizing profusely about an accident. The door opens easily on its hinges.

"What accident?" a cellist asks.

Yugi can see the room clearly from around her shoulder, and she is right; there is nothing out of order, no missed music or displaced stacks. It is as though it had never happened at all.

* * *

Yugi hovers over the lobby offices, nervously darting up to the receptionist to whisper his question in a hushed voice.

"I have a question…about an employee here by the name of Marik?"

It takes the woman less than a minute to go through their records. "I'm sorry, but I don't have anyone on file with that name."

"What?" he asks.

"No one with that name works here," she says. "Is there something else I can help you with?"

"So…have you seen a man about this tall, dressed in black with blondish hair, wandering around?" Yugi gestures his height, something in his stomach dropping as the woman continues to shake her head no.

"Thanks for your help." He flees the building as quickly as he can, violin case and music tucked under one arm. He makes it roughly a half-block before he sees the subject of his questioning standing beneath the street sign, arms crossed over his chest, falling into step with him just as if he has been waiting for Yugi all along.

"You're following me," Yugi comments, more to himself than to Marik. The other either doesn't realize this or goes along with it, his broad grin seeming to soak up most of the remaining sunlight.

"You say that like it is a bad thing," Marik says. "Are you not flattered that I am interested in you?"

Yugi misses his next step. He can't even blame the curb or the sidewalk; the pavement is smooth and even, with nothing to stumble over but air.

"But I thought—I thought—" His words have nothing to stumble over but his tongue, but they seem to be doing a good enough job at that.

"I told you—I am as interested in the musician as the music," Marik says. "You have my music, my violin—if you want the rest of me you have only to ask."

"I—uh," Yugi splutters, his words anything but elegant. Beside him Marik seems to stand even taller, brighter and more commanding than ever. He fidgets with the violin case again, the hands clutching his keys in one pocket running a thumb along the key's teeth.

Like before, Marik stands on the street as Yugi stands on the steps, hovering over him in a way that is both unsettling and a little thrilling. Well, slightly more unsettling.

He turns towards Marik. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting," is the response. "Are you going to invite me in?"

His stomach drops at the way Marik is looking at him, it's almost vicious.

"No," Yugi says. He doesn't stammer over the words this time. "No, I won't." He mumbles a goodnight and slips inside as quickly as he can, pressing his back against the closed door and closing his eyes, suddenly dizzy.

He can't bring himself to practice that night. He only glances at the calendar pinned to the refrigerator to count the days until the concert. There are not many left, now.

* * *

There is something wrong with the lighting in the rehearsal room—the light-bulb in the room flickers, yet the light from the hallway is bright enough to draw his attention. He has continued to leave the door open when he plays, his back to it, but now that he turns he can see Marik standing in its way again, on the threshold, watching him.

"You play excellently," he says, as if nothing is wrong with the picture or the exchange. "What I would give to have such talent."

It resembles nothing like any compliment Yugi has ever been given, and he only feels more awkward as Marik moves towards him. "Play the third movement—start at measure sixty."

He doesn't know why but he obliges, letting the notes slip from his fingers into the air around them. He can hear Marik's breathing from behind him, almost like an accompaniment. There is a key change at this part—the piece begins in A major and moves into F-sharp minor at this measure, and Yugi has to focus at the change, adjust his playing. He closes his eyes; he doesn't need to look at the music. It sounds better this way.

He imagines himself on the edge of a stage, backed by a curtain of red velvet and an orchestra dressed in black and white. It is polished and perfect and everything he could dream of. He glances down between notes at the instrument in his hands, and finds it to be his old violin.

He stops playing without even realizing it, jolted out of his daze by Marik's hands, lightly pressing against his shoulders. He glances down again, moving the dark, shining violin to his lap. Not this. Not like this.

Marik brushes Yugi's hair aside near his right ear and bends forward to kiss his neck.

He straightens instantly. "What was that?"

Marik's laugh is low and soft; the sound is too private, too close. "It was a kiss."

Yugi feels his cheeks grow hot. "I'm well aware." He suddenly feels the need to get away, to move away as fast as he can, otherwise he might just lean back into the touch still lingering on his shoulders.

It is the work of five seconds for him to stand and cross the room, to his violin case open on a wooden table. He packs the violin with care, letting it consume his entire attention so he won't be tempted to look back at Marik.

Eventually there is nothing left to pack.

He turns back to find Marik much closer than he thought, and jerks back as Marik watches him with luminous eyes and reaches to snatch one of his hands, holding it delicately in his own.

"Such beautiful hands," he says. "The hands that make music as you do…what else can you create? What _would_ you create, if you could?"

Yugi can only watch, his throat completely dry, as Marik lifts his hand and kisses each finger, pressing his lips to every exposed inch of skin. His lips press against Yugi's wrist before he releases the hand. To Yugi, it feels almost as if it doesn't belong to him anymore. It feels foreign—the skin itches and burns, and he wants more than anything to find out what taking Marik up on his offer might mean.

He remembers the last time he wanted something more than anything. As he watches Marik, the memory grows fainter.

"I'm offering you everything," Marik says, slow and languid. "Is that not enough for you?"

"No—I—" He feels all mixed-up now, drawn into the way Marik's eyes almost seem to burn with interest, and how nice it felt to just let him do whatever he wanted. "I don't know anything about you."

"You know more than you know," he says. "And besides, you don't really care about that."

The light flickers again, twice. Yugi can hear music in his ears, something loud and incessant, something his mind created on the spot that he can concentrate on instead of the way Marik almost seems to radiate heat, the way his grins both seem like a promise and a threat. It's thrilling to Yugi to think he might have power over such a person.

"I, uh—"

There it is again, that smirk that twists something deep in Yugi's stomach in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant.

"There's no need to make up an excuse, Yugi. I've made you uncomfortable. We should leave."

Just like that the awkwardness was gone, and he tries not to feel somehow grateful to Marik for it. He owes nothing to this man, he has to keep repeating it to himself to believe it.

On the steps of Yugi's apartment, Marik waits on the street.

"Would…you like to come up?" he asks.

"No, not tonight," Marik breathes, a triumphant, almost drunken smile adorning his face. "I just wanted to know I'd have the invitation. Perhaps…another night."

"Tomorrow," Yugi insists. "A-After the dress rehearsal. Find me."

He is treated to the full force of another of Marik's grins, his teeth glittering in the half-decaying light.

"I will."

* * *

The dress rehearsal goes off without a hitch—the commissioned piece shines, performed last after a piece by Ravel, one of his earliest major works. It's a pretty composition, but it hardly has the impact of the final piece.

Yugi grins afterwards, remembering how he'd rushed his solo in the second movement—he refused to rush the main solo, but the sooner it was over the sooner he could find Marik—and he waits in the lobby afterwards, clutching the violin case tightly with both hands.

There is no sign of him at first, and he makes sure his scarf is wrapped tightly around his neck before opening the door to stick his head out, glancing each way to finally catch sight of Marik standing by the street sign at the corner. He is unmistakable—the wildness, the way his eyes immediately seek him out through the distance and the host of musicians walking down the street in either direction. Yugi leaves the building to move towards Marik, his steps quicker than a walk but not quite fast enough to be a jog.

"You return the violin tomorrow," Marik says. "I had hoped you might play for _me_ at least once before then."

Unconsciously, Yugi has moved the violin case, holding it in his left hand, on the side of his body farthest away from Marik. "I can play for you, if you'd like."

He doesn't fumble with the keys this time. They slide into the lock with certainty and it is Marik who stands with him on the steps, Marik who locks the door behind the two of them. Marik, who is paying Yugi his full attention, every ounce of effort and being within him focused exclusively on the musician. Marik who kissed Yugi again on his neck, behind his right ear, before kissing his mouth like he wanted to devour it instead.

"You told me once to enjoy the violin while I could," Yugi whispers. As Marik takes off his jacket he notices that his shirt is red and made of what looks like silk. "You said…it was what you would do."

"Then I lied," Marik says. "For I plan to enjoy you instead."

* * *

Yugi stands backstage amongst the rest of the orchestra, bouncing on the soles of his feet. His tuxedo is a splurge, something for concerts just like this, and in one hand he holds his violin, the other the bow.

Nervous does not even begin to describe the emotions he feels—the fear, the anticipation, the unease. He knows the music will make it all right again, the music has to. It always has before, it will not let him down. His name is on the program in big, bold letters, almost as large as the commission's title. Certainly larger than the conductor's. Not as large by half as the sponsor, but Kaiba Corporation seemed to have problems relinquishing the spotlight.

Tonight, however, it was his and his alone. He had prepared for this moment, the time when each movement would be performed. The Ravel goes by almost in a single thought, more than twenty minutes of furious playing underwhelmed by the simple majesty of the commission's first movement alone.

He lives every moment he plays the violin, each note singing to the audience, to the world, marking the genius of his performance. He lingers on each measure, giving each equal attention even as the tempo jumps to something livid and bright. The emotions in each piece are so vibrant, so grand and magnificent that he isn't surprised at all to see people crying in the front row. The auditorium is so darkened that he can barely see the faces in that row, let alone past it, but he has been told it is a sellout. In the total absence of light in the auditorium the stage is awash in it, so blindingly bright it feels like a revelation to stand too long under its suffusion.

His solo alone is five minutes.

Part of the appeal of the third movement is its dedication to silence. There are thick pauses, moments where few instruments play and the rest breathe, times when he hovers over high notes and the melody is woven by the rest. Here he excels, proving to anyone with ears that his violin playing will be the most beautiful sound any of them have ever heard.

At the key change in measure sixty he dives even deeper into the music, realizing that this will be the last time he will play this way, feel this way, and he tries to embrace that and fails. The music is all he has, and he plays it furiously, trying to hold on to every note but finding them slipping away into the silences between the measures.

The end is triumphant, with every instrument joining in to create something equal parts strident and striking, and the conductor holds out the final note for what seems like days in itself. It is over, the cutoff was perfect, the _performance_ was perfect, and as Yugi glances across the darkened space and listens to the sound of hundreds of hands clapping together for him, he doesn't feel quite like celebrating. He is losing the very vehicle of his genius, after all.

The lights rise and the conductor is the first to bow, gesturing to Yugi who sweeps his deepest bow, feeling dizzy again upon standing. With a giddy smile he scans the audience, his smile and his stomach dropping as he catches sight of Marik in the front row far on the left, joining the rest in a standing ovation, clapping both hands, and staring directly at him.

The conductor bows again, before jumping back with a pleased grin stretching his mouth wide. He pulls a microphone free from its stand and speaks into it, "The composer of tonight's premiere!"

The applause is thunderous as Marik is brought to the stage, sparing Yugi no more than a casual glance as he bows. The orchestra is given their recognition and Yugi bows again, feeling like he is about to be sick.

When he is finally allowed to walk offstage, the concert over, he stares at the violin in his hand and wonders how he can ever give it up.

He doesn't walk two steps before Marik is there, his breath at Yugi's ear, the words harsh and cloying. "I want what's mine, Yugi. The violin."

His hand reaches around Yugi's body to grasp at it, folding his fingers around Yugi's own. He doesn't think he can let go. "Is there any way…? Anything I can do to keep it?" He spins to face Marik, turning his face up hopefully. "You heard the music! You…you _wrote_ the music! It was so beautiful…I want a lifetime of that."

"Follow me," Marik whispers, grabbing Yugi's elbow and leaving him little choice as they navigate backstage, heading for the practice rooms. The flickering lights don't escape his attention this time, nor does the way Marik's skin practically burns against his own. With an almost sadistic smile, Marik leaves the door open as he backs Yugi into the center of the room.

"Would you like that, Yugi?" he asks, his voice dangerously gentle. "To be able to play this violin forever?"

"Yes, I would," he says, and even as Marik holds an outstretched hand towards him Yugi can't bring himself to place the violin back into it.

"The _violin_ , Yugi." There was no gentleness this time, only danger, and he hands over the violin with only the faintest murmur of protest.

Marik has the case at his side—how, Yugi cannot comprehend—and he tucks the violin back inside, nesting it against the red velvet. "The violin comes with me, wherever I go," he says. "If you wish to follow the violin you must also follow me."

"I want the violin. I _can't_ just let something like that go, you don't understand—"

"Oh, I understand quite well," Marik says. "Does the price interest you at all?"

"What would it matter?" Yugi replies. "I would give anything."

"Even knowing what I am?" The air around them seems to shimmer, and once again Yugi is struck with the sensation of looking at a mirage, something heavy and humid and gleaming in twenty different ways at once. Marik looks resplendent in red, but there is something to be said for him in monochrome black and white. Either way he is still the same, still sinister, and some part of Yugi realizes he has suspected it all along.

"—Some kind of _demon_ ," he says.

"How does it feel, to know you've invited a demon into your home? That of your own free will, you agreed to my deal? I will keep you forever, and you will play for no one but me."

"It feels terrible," Yugi says. "I don't want to believe you."

"Then don't, and see how long that lasts you in the realm of shadows." Marik moves closer, grasping Yugi's hands in his and lifting them to press kisses to the backs of his hands. "You are mine."

Yugi watches with a vacant desperation as the light-bulb grows weaker and the shadows begin to creep in closer from all directions until he can no longer see the ceiling or the floor from them. All he can see is Marik, triumphant Marik, and Yugi knows with a sudden despair that all along this has been his plan, and not only did he walk into it, he _invited_ it. He surrendered fully to it. He created this future for himself, and he will have what he asked for—a world where he can play music _forever—_ at the cost of himself.

The shadows engulf them both completely, and between the demon and the shadows there is no escape. Marik drops his hands and steps backwards, the battered violin case held tightly just out of reach.

"Come with me, Yugi, to the realm of shadows," he says.

There is nothing left for him to do. Without hesitation, Yugi follows.

****

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> 1) A _fugue_ "is a composition built on a subject that is introduced at the beginning in imitation (repetition at different pitches) and recurs frequently in the course of the composition" (Wikipedia). The particular key of F-sharp minor is about as demonic as keys get.
> 
> 2) I am a musician myself (clarinet, a decade; voice, even longer; guitar, significantly less xD) so in writing about music I tried to give the characters musical devotion from a place of believability. For additional notes check my livejournal entry [here](https://mymisguided.livejournal.com/3054.html).
> 
> 3) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your reviews!
> 
> ~Jess


End file.
